


Unbidden

by Lefaym



Category: Torchwood
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-02-02
Updated: 2009-02-02
Packaged: 2017-10-08 02:55:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/71964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lefaym/pseuds/Lefaym
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after Ianto's backstory in Fragments: Ianto tries to remember Lisa as she was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unbidden

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to jo02 and used_songs from LJ for the betas.

By the time he returned to his flat, Ianto had regained some semblance of control. He didn't turn the light on when he entered the hall—the glow from the street lights outside was enough that he could make his way through the tiny unit without tripping over himself, and he needed to save all the power he could.

He took a few long seconds to steel himself before he entered the bedroom, preparing himself for what he'd see inside. When he was ready, he crept inside as quietly as possible, although he doubted that it would have made any difference to her had he stomped in and slammed the door. Not at the moment.

Without sufficient electricity to run the conversion unit at even half-capacity, Lisa was suspended in a state of half-life, cold and still. Only the regular beeps from the monitor beside her told Ianto that she was still alive, that there was still hope. He brought a hand to her face, his fingers tracing the line where skin met steel.

"I did it," he told her, his voice shaking with relief. "I got us in."

He didn't know if she could hear him, but he imagined that the chirps from the monitor came closer together, and he leaned down to brush his warm lips against her cold ones. God, they were freezing, she was freezing, freezing like death. _Hot breath in a dark echoing warehouse, warm flesh pressed hard against him on the floor, lips parting in expectation, anticipation—_

Ianto squeezed his eyes shut, and tried desperately to think of her as she'd been before—before the blood and the pain, and the metal. He thought of the last time they'd been out for Chinese and a movie. She'd worn a yellow dress and he'd trailed his hand along her thigh in the darkness of the cinema. _Muscular thighs, pressing close_. She'd slapped his hand away lightly when he reached too high, but she'd done it with a smile and a wink.

Later, they'd gone back to her place, and she'd pulled his shirt and jeans off, pushed him down onto the bed, and straddled him, laughing. "I want to feel you getting hard," she'd told him, grinding her hips against him. _A cock hardening against his own, only a few thin layers of clothing between them, wool and cotton_. He'd lifted her dress over her head, and discarded it on the floor (he'd fold it up later), and then she'd kissed him, her hands on his shoulders, her breasts pressing against his chest.

The not-quite-accidental brush of his own right hand across his sudden erection brought Ianto back to the present. His eyes snapped open, bringing Lisa's sleeping (dying) face into view, the light from the monitor giving her skin a faint greenish cast. Christ, was he some kind of sick bastard, touching himself like this while she lay there, barely clinging to life? Thinking of her old bedroom, that dress—_a pterodactyl, a military coat_—while she was encased in cruel sterile metal?

But then—maybe he needed to remember her that way, alive and brilliant and laughing? _So good to laugh again_. Perhaps he should hold onto that, use it as an anchor to bring her back. How could he make her better if he forgot what she felt like, if he forgot her flesh and the way they'd laughed together? Ianto flopped backwards onto the tiny pallet he'd set up for himself beside Lisa's life support system, and breathed in deeply. For her. _Hands clutching as they rolled together_. He'd do it for her.

What other reason could there be for anything? _Need to feel alive_.

Ianto closed his eyes again as he opened his trousers and wrapped a hand firmly around his cock, summoning back the image of Lisa on top of him, her mouth pressed wetly against his. _Could've kissed him. Wanted to_. He'd reached behind her to unfasten her bra, then flipped her around, so he was above her. She'd howled in mock-protest, but those howls had turned to moans as he'd trailed his lips along her neck, taken a nipple in his mouth, and worked his hand between her legs.

He'd kissed his way down her stomach, and nibbled awkwardly at her hips and her thighs as her removed her panties, before parting her legs further and positioning himself between them. He'd pressed his lips to the curly hair on her mons, and then his tongue had darted forward to tease her clit. _What would it taste like, my mouth on his cock?_ Her hands had curled into his hair, and he'd switched to broader strokes, long and flat. _His mouth on my cock—oh, God_. When he'd eased two fingers inside her she'd bucked against him, disrupting his rhythm, but then she'd pulled him up, bringing him face to face with her again, so she could kiss him, the musky taste of her lingering on his tongue.

Ianto quickened the pace of his hand on his cock as he remembered the way she'd hooked her legs around his hips and guided him inside her, pushing his briefs aside with one hand. She'd moaned encouragement as he'd thrust into her, moving against him as he said her name. _Want to fuck him_. And then her hands had found their way to his arse, slipping between his cheeks, her fingers teasing at the sensitive skin between them. _Want him to fuck me_.

It had always reduced him to incoherency, when she'd done that—_could have him over a table_—the taste of her, the smell of her—_against the wall_—the way she'd clenched around him when she came—_making him come_—inside her, enveloped completely—_so hard_—everything had been her—_dissolve into nothingness_—everything.

Ianto bit down onto his lower lip and tried not to make a noise as he came into his hand, taking care not to spill anything onto his suit—nothing that might cause a stain before he could afford a dry-cleaner. From his pocket, he retrieved a handkerchief that he could use to clean himself up, and then he refastened his trousers and his belt, smoothing the fabric across his hips. He allowed himself a moment to lie back on his pallet, composing himself, before he stood and looked at her again—so still, so quiet.

"We can make you better," he promised her in a whisper. "Make it like it was before. It'll all be okay."

_Will never be the same again_.


End file.
